#while I might temper my hype allow me to SCREAM
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[[If we get animated cutscenes I WILL CRY]]
OFF by Mortis Ghost Nintendo Switch and Steam Announcement Trailer
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I had the feeling to share this
This is originally from Draco but you can switch it up or even make it from a real person
My dearest darling love,
I know you hate when I call you that, but i miss you, and i feel that in this case, I am allowed to. I think you’ll understand. God, I miss you.
When I was younger, I was the kind of person who would scorn all feeling. I never believed the hype that the world associates with first love- or love in general, really. I never understood the idea of loving another person so much that you value their hapiness over your own, and make. your decisions based on that. That you think of them with everything you do. I am a different person now. When we first met, I thought you were an idiot. I was fascinated by you, yes, but I hated you, because people like me and people like you are obligated to hate each other. At only twelve years old, we were thrown into our own defining worlds. You were told your kind was brave and chivalrous; While I was cunning and ambitious. You are twelve. These are our most valued traits. These will define you from now on. If it hadn’t been for those houses, our story might have not started the way it did. I hated you, yes, but only because I was wired to do so.
If I hated you so much, why couldn’t I keep away from you, _________?
I fell in love with you at that ridiculous Christmas party. The fairy lights were tacky and the fruit punch was cheap, but all I could see was you. I knew it was a mistake; knew I was the walking definition of a man digging his own grave; but when I looked at you , none of that seemed to matter. The more you spoke, the more I loved you. You were the lights and the stars and the intoxicating smell of the city, and you many not have known it, but I was entirely yours. And with every day that passed since then, with every word you spoke; every moment you hated me, loved me, I fell a little bit deeper. It was wrong, but nothing could have made me happier.
You were the best mistake I ever made.
Do you remember when we walked together into the final battle? I was terrified; my only solace the grip of your hand. occurred
And then that awful fire- sobs and screams and thick black ashes all stuck in my throat; flames licking at my ankles. Smoke billowing through the air, scorching my cheeks. But I hadn’t said goodbye. My life depended on teetering stacks of rickety furniture, but I held on for dear life because all I could think about was getting out, and getting to kiss you one last time.
I never did.
I kept looking for you, running everywhere, asking anyone if they had seen you. Before I knew it, the battle was over and everyone was cheering and I was so happy, hardly paying attention to who won and who didn’t, but where were you- and then I saw you.
Crumpled on cold stone ground, your hair tangled across your cheeks. The entire world had gone cold, had crumbled around me. I could sense people cheering, bumping me, but how could anyone be happy when you were gone?
In those moments, all I could think was; a little loner. It’s too soon. Stay a little longer. Please, Belly.
I wasn’t even tearful, just… breaking, I think. Fading. I started to die then, and i am still dying, even though people tell me I’m perfectly healthy. I’ve realised that people don’t really know all that much.
I’ve been reading over and over every letter you ever wrote me. Each is beautifully worded and thought out, and I never once wrote back. I’m so sorry, Belly, I really am, I would give anything- anything- to turn back time, just to write to you; to answer each one of your letters.
I am pained, inexplicably, because our time was so limited. I am pained, because there were so many more words to say, so much more laughter, so many more tears. That short, fragment time we had; that should only have been the uneasy start of a beautiful life together. An entire life full of love and happiness and no one- no one- to tell us what to do, because don’t you remember, Belly? The cottage. We had a plan. We would live in a cottage on the beach and sit in blankets by the huge windows and watch the rain.
It’s hard to explain, and I’m not sure I ever will be able to. But a world without you, Belly, is a world I dont want to live in; a world I dont even want to imagine. I miss you. I miss your touch and your skin and your warm smell. Your hand in mine, your breaths against mine. Your voice that always seemed to say more than it was saying. I miss the way you looked in the morning, the way you smiled with tired eyes, the tips of your fingers on my cheek. Good morning, I love you. Good night, I love you. Your wit, your temper, your courage. How your hair curled down your back. How your bones fitted perfectly against mine. I miss you so, so much.
But don’t you see, Belly? I’m finally writting back! Why isn’t that good enough? How do I make you come back to me?
I know you’re happier now but it hurts. I have had to torture people, and I have been tortured myself, but no pain will ever compare to this. I would give the sun, the moon, the stars. I’d give everything I own. I’d give anything to have you back.
I really hope you’re happy, wherever you are.
And I miss you, forever, and I love you, forever.
Yours, always,
_____________
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One of the Lucky Ones
A Chrimbus Prezzie for @royallunatiic that I adored writing for her! <3
Basically a thing about Vegeta I’ve been entertaining in the back of my mind for several months. It’s a lot of things and very centralized in Vegeta’s head and feelings and oof. It focuses on canon and non-canon moments and kinda explores themes with Vegeta’s character I feel get overlooked inside and outside of canon material. It is also based on a mix Lau’s (royallunatiic’s) hcs and my own. I wouldn’t call it a retelling but more of a change in perspective that delves into darker themes surrounding Vegeta.
As a fair warning for others that might choose to read: this fic includes violence, gore, abuse, harsh language, some sexual content, mentions of depression, and probably things that people who hold canon as the Holy Grail will not like. It is a very rose colored glasses off kind of read. There is probably something in this that everyone won’t like but that’s the beauty of things, isn’t it? And this IS about Vegeta so :3
Also, side note, some of the formatting got lost between here and google docs and im too lazy to go through and try to fix that, so unfortunately some italic emphasis within the bulk of it will be lost, rip.
Most importantly, I hope this lives up to the hype, Lau! <3
Vegeta raised a white-gloved hand to his scouter, options flashing across red glass until he settled on the general’s name and scouter number. “Nappa, what is our estimated time of arrival?”
Several seconds of silence passed, the prince’s temper flaring a centigrade more with each impatient tap of his foot on the pod’s floor. Just as he clenched his jaw and prepared to snap at the other Saiyan and more forcefully request the information he sought, his scouter beeped followed by the unmistakable grumble of the man who served to raise him in lieu of a biological parent.
“Let’s see…” Vegeta rolled his eyes when he heard Nappa yawn. How the large Saiyan stayed comfortable crammed into the tiny space pods even with the help of the pod’s assisted stasis setting baffled him. Less than half the other man’s size, Vegeta struggled to rest for any proper amount of time no matter his level of exhaustion or the length of the trip. Nothing a usual plague of similarly themed nightmares helped. Years of getting used to it was the usual spiel the general gave when the prince cared enough to question him. “Twelve hours, give or take. Twelve hours before we get to take revenge for Raditz and destroy that damn mud ball.”
Vegeta grunted in response. He could have laughed at their cover to keep anyone listening in on their conversations from knowing their true objective. Neither Saiyan cared to avenge their fallen comrade, Saiyan or not. Raditz foolishly set off to find his weakling of a brother and got himself killed. If such lowly warriors could best him, he was a waste of space and resources. Good riddance; Vegeta had no time for coddling the third class fool, anyway. They had Dragonballs to secure and immortality only suited the strong. To overthrow and kill an all-powerful tyrant, he would only suffer the company of the very greatest warriors.
“Very well. Rest up, Nappa. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
“Don’t tell me these Earthling’s got you scared,” the general scoffed, the creak of leather sounding as he shifted in his seat. “Raditz’s power level didn’t hold a candle to ours. We’ll blow ‘em all away, no trouble, a year of training or not. And without Kakarot, it will be a cinch. In and out, just like we planned.”
Vegeta snarled. “Watch your tongue, Nappa. I’d sooner fear Cui than a lowly Earthling.” He hoped the bastard heard that. Or that Frieza did and would relay the message to amuse himself with the soldier’s rage. “They are at least clever enough to gang up on Raditz. I would hate to see you meet your end over stupidity.”
“Fat chance.”
If Nappa had anything else to say, Vegeta missed it. He had switched his scouter off to take his own advice. Or try. His anticipation to achieve immortality, to finally avenge his people and end Frieza once and for all. Kept his mind from shutting down. To take back what was promised to him, what was rightfully his. For his own, personal revenge for the abuse and embarrassment he endured under his rule. As little more than a slave. Jaw tense at the memories, he closed his eyes.
His nerves went into overdrive as the door slid shut behind him, the fur of his tail standing on end at his waist. A request for an audience with Frieza never bode well in past experiences. It usually meant a beating or other form of degradation in front of his cronies or for his own sick amusement. And with the weight of his planet and his race perishing still heavy on his heart and mind...what more could Frieza say or do to him?
Before he could kneel or greet the tyrant, Frieza turned from his locked view of the passing stars to the young Saiyan rooted a few feet in front of the door, trying his best to keep the hollowness he felt in his chest from his gaze. In front of Nappa and Raditz, he had tried to remain aloof. Stunned by the suddenness with a hint of anger at cruel fate and be the strong leader he now had no choice but to be to them. They answered to him, not his father. Not any more.
“Ah, Vegeta! Such shocking news!” Frieza threw his free hand in the air to complement the dramatic flare in his voice. He set the glass of wine he clutched in the other on the nearest surface and floated toward him, reptilian feet meeting tile before the Saiyan. “My condolences, of course. An asteroid of all things wipes out the Saiyan race!”
Vegeta swallowed, gloved fingers curling into his palms and his tail tightening around his waist. He did not need to be aware of Frieza’s general distaste for his people to hear the mocking undertone dripping from every word. The misfortune of his race was a cause for celebration to the tyrant.
“We will move forward,” he responded robotically, straightening his posture and meeting Frieza’s wicked, crimson eyes. His mouth went dry when he saw the humor dancing in them. “We will continue to serve as we always have.”
The emperor of the universe placed his hands behind his back, contemplating. Searching for ways to toy with the boy like a predator who had cornered its prey. “Spoken like a true prince with so much responsibility suddenly on his shoulders.” He sighed, the latter portion of his tail idly striking the tiled floor. “Such a shame to lose so many monk--I mean, soldiers. Their lives are irreplaceable.”
Rage burned hotter in his hollowed out body. It danced on his tongue and clawed at his jaw, desperately trying to pry his mouth open to retort or spit in his face or simply scream. Anything but the fear-soaked silence that pervaded. What did he have to lose? Everything he had been promised--his kingdom, his people, his planet--had all been obliterated. Dying now would grant him mercy. But the fighter in him, the angry, scorned warrior, screamed louder. He screamed for blood. For vengeance. He was young, but he didn’t believe that asteroid story. It stank worse than Nappa after a long day of training in the wastes back home. And this performance, this farcical show of compassion, only fueled such suspicions.
“Come now. Don’t look so glum, Vegeta. After all...” Frieza rested a clawed hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Tight. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”
No, no, no.
This had to be another nightmare.
Vegeta clung to the last dregs of consciousness his weakened state would allow in order to type the coordinates--any coordinates--to what he hoped would land him at a base to get patched up. His hand shook over the buttons, and his vision doubled and tripled while trying to make sense of the screen. Blood trickled down his forehead and off the tip of his nose. Every inch of him screamed in agony. A few more seconds of focus...that's all he needed….
He fell back once he thought he counted enough characters punched in, gritting his teeth as the careless motion jolted a new bolt of pain through his body. Obsidian eyes hooded, he watched the stars, asteroids, and planets whizz by in a blur through slitted gaze. He felt his consciousness fading, his mind replaying the bad dream Earth had turned to in a jumbled chronology of events. The fight with Kakarot, how the third class stood up to his every attack. That damn brat and his bald friend and the fat one interfering. Cutting off his damn tail. Squeezing the life out of that clown in his Oozaru form. Saibamen and the joy of watching those worms struggle against them and Nappa when they wouldn't give them the Dragonballs. The brat transforming. Nappa's blood on his hands for his failure. The bald one sparing him.
Spared. Not victorious. Not immortal. Broken. Beaten. Bloody. And spared by a worthless third rate warrior and his weakling friends. The great Prince Vegeta bested by a troupe of circus performers. He could have laughed at the absurdity of it all if he had the breath and fortitude for it. Pride damaged, a small part of him hoped his battered brain had typed the coordinates in wrong. Dump him off on some random planet to die alone with what little dignity he had left. Let his race perish once and for all with him. Kakarot was no Saiyan. He did not deserve the warrior blood that roared in his veins. He was an Earthling. He barely knew what it meant to be a Saiyan. The hardships he had faced. How it felt to lose everything.
Kakarot. His bloody fingers twitched as the name of that fool spun around his mind in a taunting sing-song like some sick nursery rhyme. Yet. He didn't know that feeling yet. Sparing him was the biggest mistake those Earthlings could make. He would make Kakarot suffer. He would kill each of his friends one by one in front of him. Slow. Grueling. Starting with the fat one that robbed him of his tail. Then, he would kill Kakarot. No. He would spare Kakarot. Beat him to a gurgling mess of blood and broken bones and destroy his planet with him on it. Yes, that would do nicely.
First things first: immortality. Namek. Frieza. Then, Kakarot.
Quaking hand rose to his scouter. He sent out a distress signal. Just in case.
He convinced Nappa to let him out of his sight with relative ease and bored Raditz with some excuse about checking out the moons of the planet for vegetation types to keep him from tagging along to leave the planet they were ordered to recon alone and undisturbed. The assignment was close to the coordinates of his home planet, committed to memory in his youth. After nearly a decade, the close proximity tugged at an emotion he couldn't place. Deeper than curiosity but darker than nostalgia. A need to put to rest his doubt and disbelief, and affirm it had not all been a cruel joke Frieza played on him all these years.
Though, as his pod flew ever closer to his destination, a dim hope flickered in the buried part of him that still mourned and despaired over the fall of his race. For that reason, he kept his eyes closed, the vision of his home planet painted on the inside of his eyelids. Until the pod slowed, and the change in motion coerced the Saiyan Prince's eyes open to see…
To see nothing. Nothing but stars and space dust.
He didn't know how long he stared, or how many times he cancelled his pod's attempts to reroute him to a place for a proper landing when the current coordinates yielded nothing solid. His chest tightened, his throat and eyes burned as he rested a gloved hand on the red glass of the pod. Tears poured from his obsidian eyes as his fingers curled into his palm and he banged his fist against the window. Gone. All gone. He had known it all along, hadn't he? What did he really expect to find out here?
He buried his face in his hands with a shuddering breath, sliding them back into his hair before letting them fall limply at his side. He couldn't deny it now; Planet Vegeta had been obliterated along with everyone on it. Reduced to no more than space matter idly drifting among the stars. In that moment, even his memories of his youth seemed to join them as any attempt to recall them left him numb.
Another request to reroute to the nearest planet echoed too loudly in his ears. Vegeta spared the empty vacuum where his home once lay one last glance before inputting the coordinates to the planet he and the others had been assigned.
Vegeta switched off the ship’s gravity controls soon after touchdown on the long forgotten planet he had chosen for training. The gradual shift from 450 times the Earth’s gravity back to normal levels welcome after hours of pushing through the training drills. He gripped the console to steady himself and hunched over as he caught his breath, sweat dripping from his visage and pooling between switches and buttons. Every muscle, every fiber of his body ached from the strain of training at the high level of gravity. So much so that just a twitch of his fingers depleted far more energy than anything should. He slammed his fist down on the control panel and straightened up. He had no time to rest. He had to push himself, push through the pain and strain and keep going. He was running out of time. He needed to become a Super Saiyan no matter the cost.
Measured steps carried him to the bag he had packed. He rummaged around and pulled out a fresh set of armor. He tore off the sweat drenched rags his training reduced the current set to and tossed it aside, replacing it with the clean suit and chest armor. He ignored the toll the simple action took on him and yanked his boots and gloves on. He punched the button and released the door hatch to descend onto the planet’s surface. Away from the distractions of Earth, the planet that had become his chosen prison. He had to stay close to his prey, keep his enemies close. Make this unexpected resurrection count.
His second chance at life had begun with sucking in dirt before rising out of a shallow grave. Followed by witnessing a third-class warrior fill the slot in his race's history meant for him. Vegeta had stared up into a tumultuous sky as the very planet beneath his boots breathed its last breaths, erupting and quaking as a greater power threatened its very core. Awestruck, the Saiyan prince watched legend become reality. Kakarot had achieved what most wrote off as legend, aglow in gold, hair and eyes changed from dark hues to light: a Super Saiyan in the flesh. And he faced off with Frieza. Would soon kill Frieza. Both milestones he promised himself and only fit for the last living Saiyan royal. The clown snatched his birthright and vengeance for all he and his people suffered under Frieza from him in the span of hours.
The realization only settled after the whirlwind of astonishment, initial pride in the irony of a Saiyan ending Frieza, and momentary swell of invincibility with the idea of being back on top with Kakarot and Frieza both dead suddenly switched direction and whipped him into the nearest wall. The damned fool survived after all, according to those bumbling Earthlings. His mood tanked, and something akin to panic intertwined with his rage: what now? Where did he go from here?
Immortality didn't strike his fancy anymore when living forever seemed worse than death, the easy way of winning. He could cross Frieza off; he couldn't kill a dead man. That left Kakarot and his friends. He could kill the latter whenever he chose, the only one posing a possible challenge being the Namekian. But what use was that when he could not stand up to Kakarot's retaliation? The fool had thrown his whole plan off kilter! Stole everything promised to him and made him look like a fool! The Saiyan Prince would not--could not--be bested by this low class a third time. Kakarot would die by his hand, that would not change. But he needed to train first, achieve Super Saiyan and do it better.
And so he trained. Day and night until he flirted with death. Haunted by the image of Super Saiyan Kakarot battling Frieza on a dying planet. The memory of sensing that power for the first time seemed stamped on his ki perception, a power that threatened to bring him to his knees. Bitterness, vengeance, and rage surged him onward, a man possessed. Driven by an ever present need to take his place as the most powerful being in the universe.
And yet, despite all that, he remained unchanged. Stronger, certainly. But he still lacked the key to transformation, and that only ignited his fury further. What did that buffoon have that he lacked? How? The singular word bounced around his brain like the simulated ki blasts of his training program. What was the secret? Time ticked down until these androids meant to doom them all arrived. He refused to die to some mechanical monstrosities, not before he got his chance to prove once and for all that he was the superior warrior.
They would serve as a testament to his strength. His ascension to legendary status. But he had to get there first.
The sky above him raged in a violent storm, lightning streaking the dark at intervals of mere milliseconds. The air around him surged with power, a reflection of the intense wrath that blazed within him. The ground shook from the force of the accompanying thunder, rattled his very being to the core. He felt awakened, his previous exhaustion forgotten as a new wave of invigoration overpowered it.
So his training began. Unencumbered. Uninhibited. Free of the petty distractions that interrupted him on Earth. Until the meteors threatened his ship. Fine. A new training exercise. He zipped through the shower, punching and blasting his way through the chunks of space rock with precision and finesse. The warm up, he found, when a meteor half the size of the planet entered the atmosphere, parting the clouds in a fiery cascade. The Saiyan prince soared upward, confident when his previous employment required him to destroy entire planets on a whim. He pulled his arm back, energy building in his palm before he shot it toward the meteor. Though, instead of resulting in an explosion, the behemoth swallowed the light, only spraying a few chunks of matter from its surface. Another blast. A barrage of them. Still it inched closer to his only means to escape this planet. His training had left him too drained. This damn rock was going to strand him there on that empty planet. No! He wouldn’t let that happen!
Mustering every last ounce of energy he could, he pulled both hands up to his head, the back of his right hand pressed into his left palm. Purple energy built around him and in his hands. “Galick Gun, fire!” With all he had left, he shot the violet energy through his hands toward the encroaching meteor, energy bursting from his palms and striking it at near point blank range. The explosion shot him straight toward the planets surface, his used up body crashing through rock formation after rock formation before slamming into the ground.
Immense pain and the ringing in his ears were all he could register as he lay prostrate in the wide crater for countless minutes. He cracked his eyes open, squinting at the lightning streaked sky above him. He needed to move, to ensure his efforts yielded success. He pushed up with his elbows, snarling as pain ripped through him, and he shifted to his knees and dragged himself to the edge of the crater. He stretched his hand out on level ground and hoisted his upper half from the hole; it was all he could manage. The Prince of all Saiyan’s reduced to crawling, clawing his way out of a crater. Too weak to best a meteor and stay on his feet. How fucking pathetic.
Vegeta beat his bruised and bloody fist on the stone ground, the guttural growl growing in volume with each pound to echo the thunder rolling around him. How many more times did he have to fail? He failed his own race, and then couldn’t even take proper revenge for their murder. He failed Nappa and Raditz, no matter how damn weak they were. At this point, what made him any better? Kakarot bested him, too. Isn’t that why he killed Nappa? Because the bumbling idiot couldn’t even kill an Earth-raised, third rate Saiyan? Even a damn kid from the future had surpassed him! The Prince of all Saiyans! He who had been promised the universe and then some by his damnable father! What did he have to show for it? For all the pain and abuse and training? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. He had been reduced to buying his time on a planet he should have just destroyed upon landing, surrounded by the very idiots that began his streak of shitty luck!
What had Frieza told him? “You’re one of the lucky ones.” Ha! At that moment, he would bet the universe got off on shooting him down and kicking him in the ribs.
He bowed his head as tears of rage and shame filled his eyes, though his gut boiled fiercely. He forced himself onto his feet, stumbling a step before regaining his balance. Nothing. The word echoed in his ears, roaring in the thunder as it answered the lightning. He had nothing left. Had lost it all long ago, but he refused to admit it to himself. And suddenly...everything that had driven him the past three years meant nothing. He didn’t care about Kakarot or killing him or surpassing him. He didn’t care if he left this planet. He didn’t even care if he lived. How long had he walked on borrowed time? His second chance at life was a damn joke, a literal accident, extra time for the universe to taunt him for his failings.
Vegeta’s heart pounded in his ears, beating on his sternum like a war drum. The rest of the world fell silent around him as his rage exploded. Pure power rushed through his body and he tilted his head back to bellow his fury into the void of space above. Blinding light flared from his form and burst with a planet-quaking boom.
Consciousness flooded back like a sea’s tide, the area around him now illuminated in a golden glow. A glow that originated from him. He raised his hands and flexed them before balling them into fists. Such power. It felt incredible. Endless. Roiling throughout every ounce of his being. His shoulders shook as laughter rumbled in his chest and finally burst from his mouth. He took to the air and shot through the angry sky, admiring his speed. He destroyed mountains as he whizzed by them, each target bigger than the last. If he didn’t need the ship, he would have destroyed the planet itself just to see how easy his new power made it.
Landing near the ship (still intact, surprisingly), he powered down, acutely aware of the toll it took on him. He would have to fix that, master the form and improve upon it. It felt surreal, like he would wake up at any moment. But he knew better. He knew he only had nightmares.
He had truly done it. He had become a Super Saiyan.
“Well, I guess there really is a first time for everything.”
Vegeta didn’t care if the bartender’s comment was meant for him or merely the young woman musing aloud; he kept his attention on the drink sitting in the open space within his crossed arms on the polished wood. He could still hear the vapid giggling of the two women as they trotted to the elevator at the back of the room, clinging on the arms of his charmed comrades. It was nothing new to the prince, especially on obvious busy work like this meant to keep them out of Frieza’s line of sight for a little while. Until he needed them again. Everyone knew years of mining and drilling by the Cold’s forces had sucked this planet dry of any valuable resources. The inhabitants ranged from an occasional surprising street fighter to abysmally weak, and very few even knew how to control Ki. The bulk of Frieza’s force there had already evacuated, sent on more fruitful endeavors for the empire. At best, this planet would be made a base, and the inhabitants would have to continue to live with Frieza’s soldiers. But, this far out, Vegeta wasn’t that optimistic.
A misstep had earned them this pointless assignment on the edges of Frieza’s claim to the universe, and they were given three days to complete a full recon and report, not counting travel time. Peeved and annoyed with the gall Frieza had to assign them busy work, even Vegeta agreed that, after finishing up the assignment in just over a day, they could use the remainder of their second day to use as they saw fit and send the report in on the morning of their third day. For Raditz and Nappa, that typically meant booze, food, and fucking whoever would have them. For Vegeta, he would likely find a space to train at his leisure.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a group of three or more men not break out into a fight over my sisters’ company. Unless you’re just not into women...I suppose I shouldn’t assume…”
Obsidian eyes finally slid over to the woman, and, in comparison to her siblings, he understood why she would not appeal to the masses as easily as her sisters. Shorter and more plainly dressed in a shabby-looking, moss green jacket (the bar blocked the rest of his view of her outfit), she appeared to prefer avoiding attention rather than grabbing it. Two, beaded braids framed her face while the rest of her tawny hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, the same braids appearing intermittently throughout. She lacked the nearing gaudy makeup her sisters donned, and freckles dotted her lightly sun-kissed cheeks and the bridge of her slightly misshapen nose. A preference for the outdoors, perhaps, if not natural. The long ears inherent of her race jutted out from the side of her face, and he noticed the rose color dusting their tips.
“Your sisters aren’t my type,” he said finally, in hopes of shutting her up. She seemed to be the type to talk more when nervous. If she didn’t continue to ramble, he could at least take some solace in the fact that her voice held a more mellow timbre than the near screech of her sisters’. He picked up his drink and took a hearty gulp. Supposedly the strongest they had, but he knew he would need to drink these all day to even earn a buzz.
He heard her hum and he thought she might take the hint and busy herself with cleaning the counter or glasses. Something other than making small talk with him. Wishful thinking.
“I would ask what your type is, then, but I’m going to assume you won’t answer that.” He offered her a grunt in response, though he couldn’t stop himself from casting her another glance, as if her unasked question reflexively piqued his curiosity to check if she fit such a bill (not that he really knew his type, anyway; he didn’t care to figure it out, but he always knew what wasn’t). The only features he would consider striking in her face were her eyes, an unusual shade of shimmering silver he could not recall ever witnessing. “You’re Frieza’s soldiers, right? You and your friends?”
He fixed her with a glare, insulted, but unsure of how to correct her first: the Prince of all Saiyans answered to no one unless he wanted to and he would never refer to Nappa or Raditz as a friend. However, in an attempt to avoid more pointless conversation and seem interested in talking to her, he replied with a growled, “Yes,” and drained his glass.
“So, you can fight, then?”
Vegeta slid the glass across the bar toward her--which she expertly caught, much to his surprise considering the suddenness and speed--and rose to his feet. A stupid question, and he was sure she knew it. He pulled the neck of his armor out to fish out his pay chip, intent on paying for his drink and making a hasty exit, and slapped it down on the bar.
The woman retrieved his chip, but made no immediate move to run it. “Um, this is going to sound like an odd question but would you spar with me? I need the practice…” Silver eyes darted to the tapping of his fingers on the wood, and she rushed to the terminal behind her. She returned and offered the chip back to him. However, when he reached out for it, she snatched it out of his reach. She didn’t flinch when he growled; she expected an answer.
The Saiyan prince lifted a hand to his scouter, but it hung in midair. A habit to check a prospective opponent’s power level. He lowered it again. His tongue wrapped around a haughty rejection, but held it firmly in his mouth. Such a strange request when none that he surveyed on the planet could touch even the lowliest of Frieza’s men, and most showed no signs of any fighting prowess besides. He doubted she was much different, but his boredom and curiosity convinced him to humor her. If she had the guts to challenge him, he could grant her the satisfaction of understanding just how grave her mistake was.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Her eyes widened; she obviously expected him to refuse. A show of sharp canines in an annoyed snarl reanimated her. She slapped the chip back into his waiting palm and darted toward a door off the bar, tearing the apron from her waist and shrugging out of her jacket as she went. Vegeta tucked his pay chip away as she shouted into the next room that she was going out. She slammed the door before whoever was behind it could protest and joined him on the other side of the bar. Unencumbered by the bar and her jacket, he saw that she wore a baggy pair of pants that matched her jacket in color and a pair of boots common in style on the planet. The white shirt turned out to be a tank top that clung to her body and bore a strip of her midriff, accentuating toned arms and abdomen. Heat rose in his cheeks when his mind registered that she was...shaplier in the chest area than the jacket allowed onlookers to guess. He turned on his heel quickly to preserve his pride and class.
“Great! I know a place not far from here. Nice and open and people don’t usually hang around there.” The woman followed him outside and, before he could ask if she could fly, her feet left the dust-riddled street and she took off. He huffed and flew after her, catching up with ease. She could use ki. That at least meant this spar might scratch the surface of interesting, at least.
“I am surprised you can leave your bar unattended on a whim, even in a backwater town like that one. Is business truly that slow?”
“My parents will handle it,” she responded shortly, her attention set in front of her. “They own the place, anyway. They’re lucky I give enough of a shit about my sisters to stick around, help out, and protect them, and they know that. They sure as hell never do it. Besides, they probably think I’m off to earn money, anyway, so of course they’re not going to question it.”
Vegeta had his suspicions about the two women when they fluttered over to the trio upon entering. His icy demeanor spurned them immediately, but Nappa and Raditz welcomed their flirtations without qualm. He heard their whispers and the exchange of terms through their giggles; he had tagged along to enough brothels to understand their inner workings, no matter how low key and whether he participated or not. However, he could not recall any where parents pimped out their children. Such vile beings this universe hosted…
They touched down in an open field, the patches of green within the nearly dried up landscape the most he had seen in miles. “Do you plan to charge me for this spar then, woman?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest. A slight smirk curled his lips. “Do you charge per punch landed? Extra for using ki?”
Her brows lowered and corners of her lips dipped downward as she stretched an arm over her chest. “You like to hear yourself talk after all, don’t you?” She snorted and switched limbs. “Obviously, I knock out or kill those who agree to spar with me and rob them blind. Requires much less calculation.”
He might have believed her if he hadn’t caught the quiver of her lips in a flash of a smile. “Ha! Well, I think you’ll find I’m much more difficult to take down. But, if you can, I’ll give you every bit of currency I have to my name.”
“Great, I’ve been eyeing a new pair of boots.”
She sprang forward before the last word could register meaning in the Saiyan’s mind, punches and kicks flying in a flurry of speed he did not expect. He dodged them without issue, his arms remaining folded, and allowed his focus to gauge her skill level. Quick. Unpolished but confident and strong swings, suggesting she taught herself to some degree and had enough success. The ever lessening presence of her smirk further suggested the latter; she was not used to having this much trouble.
Finally, Vegeta allowed an easily dodged uppercut to connect with the underside of his chin, a test of her strength, how hard she could hit. His head snapped back, the point of contact smarting and his teeth ringing from the impact. He expected her to celebrate her small victory, but she proved him wrong. A sweep of her leg sent him skidding several feet from where he stood. He only just recovered before she attacked again. Fine, she proved clever enough. Though a piss poor strategy like wearing her opponent out wouldn’t work on him.
He ducked beneath a fist aimed for his face and caught her ankle as she attempted to follow up with a kick. He responded to her surprised gasp with a rumbling chuckle of his own. “Not bad. But I’m not just some urchin you picked a fight with off the street.”
Vegeta tugged the woman forward, taking advantage of her lack of balance, and sidestepped. He shoved and elbow hard into her spine and sent her sprawling face first into the dust. “Hmph, if that’s all you have to offer, fly home. I don’t waste time with weaklings.”
She pushed off her hands and twisted at the waist to shoot a wave of lavender ki straight for his face. He bent back to avoid it, the heat brushing past his face before he heard it explode in the cliff face behind them. His smirk widened when he found her back on her feet and charging him again. He dodged and blocked her blows once more, but he noted the significant boost in her speed and strength. Good, she was taking this seriously now. He had given her an immediate understanding of what kind of opponent she dealt with, and she rose with that challenge. Respectable, even if her power level only ranked among the middle levels of Frieza’s ranks.
Their spar continued on much the same way: Vegeta allowed her to punch, kick, and toss ki blasts his way to her heart’s content, then he would return a few blows and knock her away. Each time, she came back stronger, faster, more determined to level the playing field no matter how wide the gap between them or the blood and bruises on her body from his strikes. An admirable warrior in her own right. She impressed him, as far as the denizens of this doomed planet went.
As the daylight began to fade, the sky dyed various hues of burning orange, he noticed each time she fell, she took a few seconds longer to rise up again. Finally, a kick to her side sent her sailing sideways and skidding along the ground. Her body slammed into the bottom of the cliff, and she laid motionless for several seconds. Just when he thought he had knocked her unconscious or her body had finally given out, he heard her groan and flip over from her side to her back, a grin on her face.
“Alright, that’s it. I give in.” She forced herself to a sitting position, expression contorting in pain with every miniscule motion. “You win. But you knew you would this whole time, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.” He cocked his head to either side, stretching the tendons in his neck. Their spar hadn’t been the most productive for him, but it hadn’t bored him either. A rarity, even with those meant to be on his skill level. “You surprised me. I would have never guessed anyone on this planet could even come close to the level you’ve achieved.”
She shifted to face him and swept her forearm over her face to rid it of sweat, blood, and grime. “It was actually a Saiyan that inspired me to learn to fight, even if I had to teach myself. I was little, but I watched a Saiyan woman fight off another of Frieza’s soldiers when he wouldn’t leave her alone. It was eye-opening when I was taught all along that women didn’t fight. Not respectable ones at least.” She shrugged a shoulder and rolled it for a stretch and Vegeta grunted; too many societies he had come into contact with believed similarly. He found it pathetic and ridiculous. “I couldn’t turn down the chance to fight one, to test myself. It’s been ages since I’ve seen another Saiyan…”
“That’s because we’re the last three.” The admission tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, and he scowled. He usually did not correct anyone ignorant of his people’s fate, kept his comments to himself when some merchant or whore wondered aloud about the last time they did business with a Saiyan. And yet, this woman had him yapping about something so personal without even trying. Must be the lack of food. When had he eaten last? That morning?
The woman’s face fell. “O-oh...I-I’m--”
“Save it.” Vegeta stomped over to her and stuck out his hand, the suddenness causing her to flinch back. She took it and he pulled her to her feet, a little rougher than he initially intended, though, if it bothered her, she said nothing. He released her hand. “Where is the best place for food here? Everything I’ve tried here tastes like molten garbage.”
“Well, there’s really not much left, as I’m sure you noticed.” She dusted herself off and pulled the strap of her tank top back into its proper place. “But...you’re welcome to stay at my place for the night. If you want. It’s quieter than the hotel, that’s for sure, more comfortable, too. Many of the rooms there haven’t been cleaned in quite a while, if you want the honest truth. My parents have yet to hire new help after skimping on paying the last batch of employees, my sisters refuse to help with that sort of work, and…”
She trailed off when she noticed his pointed look, how she hadn’t answered his question. She swallowed. “And I can cook. So you’ll get food, peace, and comfort. The offer’s open so take it if you want.”
Vegeta watched her take to the sky and mulled over the offer. With how she seemed determined to chat with him, he questioned the validity of her claim to quiet. The growl of his stomach voted in favor, proposing that almost anything could beat the trash he and his cohorts had wolfed down the day before. Comfort...his mind lingered on that word, twisting it into a more lewd definition. Images of her toned, nude body beneath him among a tangle of sheets, glistening in sweat as her moans filled the air…
White energy surrounded him and he shot into the sky after her. Fine. What did he have to lose anyway? Unless Frieza felt some sort of sentimental value toward this planet and those who roamed on it, she would likely be killed in the near future anyway. A shame, considering her potential. It was too bad there weren’t more like her. Enough to make her planet a worthwhile gem among the tyrant’s endless trove…
He wondered if she knew that...understood what his and his lackeys’ stay here likely meant for her and her home…
"We're getting married, Vegeta. That's final."
He swore the damn woman had an alarm on every door he frequented, from his bedroom in the guest wing to the gravity room. Perhaps on his bed, too, as he had just convinced himself to roll out of it, dress, and hole himself up in the gravity chamber to train until his body begged him to stop. He had just pulled the door open and there she stood, scowling and balancing her brat on her hip. The kid seemed unfazed by the aggravation in her voice, more intent on sucking his thumb.
Vegeta gripped the doorframe, the only thing to keep him from shoving her out of the way and continuing on his way. He had spent months away after Cell's defeat, once more a man lost and unsure of his purpose. His pride in tatters when even Kakarot's brat had surpassed him. Those days remained a blur in his memory as he worked through his rage until it fizzled out and he had nothing left to fuel him. Hollowed out, unfeeling, unmotivated. One moment he wanted to steal the woman's father's ship, blast off into space and challenge every powerful warrior he could find to validate his own strength. Take over the Cold empire as he was meant to. In the end, that all felt pointless. A set up for another string of unfortunate failures. Thus, he settled on the only thing that felt familiar, the only thing that brought even the remotest sense of contentment for him: training. Even if it meant suffering the woman and her worthless friends.
"Hello! Earth to Vegeta! Did you hear a word I said?" Bulma swapped the half asleep child to her other hip. "I know you decided to disappear on me and your child for months, but surely that didn't affect your hearing!"
He wished it had, her shrill shrieks unfriendly to sensitive ears and already threatening a pounding headache. "I heard you, woman," he growled, making to shove forward only for her to shift in front of him. Marriage to a weak Earth woman who could not even fight...he could hear his ancestors laughing in Hell. The only attributes she possessed he would consider remotely worthwhile were her decent looks and intellect when it came to technology. Nothing marriageable about her to a true Saiyan. Not to mention her obvious desire for Kakarot no matter how she tried to hide it. In his time there, he found Earth's ideals, especially those surrounding marriage and mating, starkly differed from those of Saiyans. And not for the better. They craved companionship and what they called love as the highest goals in their lives. They would set aside everything for it, change themselves for it, no matter how long or hard they worked to achieve whatever goals they had before. Saiyans rarely married, even his parents married as a mere show of power, the Saiyan King with their most powerful, accomplished, and terrifying general. They mated when they chose, and if a brat resulted from it, it didn't always mean they stuck around as a pair. Here he found, that was taboo. Unacceptable and improper.
"And just why do you think I would want to marry the likes of you?" he asked, hoping a thinly veiled insult would upset her and send her crying to her parents or that beta male she still fucked around with.
His words only deepened her glare and she stood her ground. "Are you kidding me?" She pointed at the brat, now babbling and tugging on the neckline of her shirt. "You knocked me up, you creep! It's the right thing to do, and you owe me and Trunks at least that!"
"Because you weren't throwing yourself at me the moment the damn Namek dragon sent us all back to Earth." He could insult her, belittle her, nearly kill her friends, treat her like utter trash and order her around like a damn servant day in and day out and she still flirted and tried to bed him. The meaner he was, the hornier it made her. Of course he caved eventually; he had needs, too. He hadn't even thought of impregnating her, his bestial instincts begging him for release in more carnal avenues and blinding him to the possibility in the moment. He stupidly forgot their races were even genetically compatible. She wanted to fuck, he needed release; the answer was simple at the time. "I don't owe you shit, woman, now get the hell out of my way before I force you out of the way."
"After I let you live, eat, and train here for free, you really think you don't owe me anything? I don't think you've ever even said thank you!"
Vegeta rolled his eyes. He had had enough of her shit for another few months. He shoved forward only to be blocked again. His temper flared, hackles rising in warning.
Bulma merely scoffed. "You need to man up, Vegeta. Own up to your 'mistakes'," she huffed and yanked a strand of her hair out of the child's clutches before he could stick it in his mouth. "I'm going to be straight with you since no one else--not even yourself--will. Your entitled, cocky prince act was cute at first, but it got old real quick. Your outbursts and temper tantrums are childish. Newsflash, Vegeta! You're not even a prince anymore! Your planet and people are gone, and the few left would never bow to you! You're not royalty, and no one will ever treat you like it! Get over it and stop acting like a baby. You have a child now, I'm going to be your wife, and you're going to learn to live here like a responsible, normal person!"
Had she spewed this drivel a few months, a few years ago, he might have blasted her where she stood for her disrespect. The emptiness inside him kept him from caring about her stupid opinions, her expectations of him, the grains of truth in her prattle. He did not care if she thought him a "real man." He did not even care that she insulted his title, his bloodline, or attacked a sensitive subject she could not begin to understand the gravity of. But the attack on his pride as a Saiyan, to order him to conform to her idealistic model of normalcy and perform the part of the happy husband and father, roles he didn't care to fill with the likes of her...that threatened to put her through the wall she stood in front of.
"That's rich coming from a spoiled brat like you," he snarled. She didn't know shit about him and she didn't try either. Why the hell would he want to bond himself with a woman like her? His dark eyes found her blue ones, the darkness in him bubbling to the surface. "Say one more word to me today and I'll rip your voice box from your throat."
This time, Bulma stepped back, her spine meeting the wall as she swallowed. He could smell her fear, no matter how little her stubborn frown wavered. He huffed and moved past her, stomping toward the glass doors at the end of the hall that would lead him onto the manicured lawn still drenched in the morning dew.
"How typical! Hear something you don't like and you throw a fit! Solve all your problems with violence like the ape you are!"
Vegeta halted halfway to the door. Every muscle in his body tensed as a war for control raged inside him. His mind had converted Bulma's voice to Frieza's, the slur and similar ones echoing in his skull joined by the cruel laughter that often accompanied it. One fist slammed into the wall beside him while the other clutched his head. He had to move. Get out of that damn hallway and away from the damn woman. He could hear the brat screaming from somewhere far away, his mother trying to hush him and throwing another insult his way.
He willed his feet to walk. Once outside, he shot into the sky. Away from Capsule Corp. Away from the city. He would not suffer her shit another second that day.
Glass and bone crunched beneath his boot, fresh blood further staining once ivory leather. The screams and groans of pain had subsided, the only sounds around him the crackle of flames and the occasional whistle of the wind. The scent of death and burning flesh filled his nostrils, fueling the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
He kicked a corpse aside--a soldier, if the armor meant anything--and tapped the button on his scouter with bloodied fingertips to perform a scan of the area. See if any unlucky fools escaped his initial razing of the planet. He had the whole assignment to himself. Nappa had protested; the planet had been in rebellion for quite some time and housed unexpectedly powerful warriors in great numbers. How even the strongest warriors could fall when outnumbered. Vegeta ignored him and threatened to toss him out an airlock if he tried to follow without his say so. It would be a worthy test of his strength, an uninhibited and untethered display of his power, if the reports had any merit.
As it turned out, they didn’t. Not that he could see.
His scouter beeped three times as it picked up a reading, the yellow characters flashing on the red glass indicating it originated behind him. Close, weakened if ever strong. Attuned ears picked up the slow approach with one foot landing heavier on the pavement than the other, a poor attempt at stealth. One left. And here he thought he had been thorough…
“You damn monster,” the lone survivor croaked behind him. Vegeta opened his eyes enough to note the surge in his power level on his scouter, a light behind him lengthening his shadow. So, he would fight to his last breath.
The Saiyan turned on his heel to face his heckler, tongue lashing out to lick gore--his or someone else’s, he didn’t know or care--from his face. The local had definitely been caught in the crossfire, armor cracked and broken, his body littered with bruises and painted with blood. He put all his weight on his right leg, the left hanging limply beside it. He held a ball of ki in his hand, though the light guttered with the fading of his energy.
“How very original,” Vegeta drawled. Terrifying speed placed him directly in front of the dying soldier. He gripped his wrist and snapped it back in a sickening crack, sending the attack meant for him jetting into space. The man howled in pain, widening the smirk the Saiyan wore.
“Y-you’re no better than him...than Frieza!”
His smirk fell into a tight frown, and his grip tightened. “You’re right.” Vegeta raised his hand level with the soldier’s face. “I’m much, much worse.”
Vegeta fired the blast at Kakarot. Point-blank range and putting him on guard with no chance for immediate retaliation. He had to be if he wanted to protect all those people spectating in the stands behind him. He watched as the force behind the energy forced him back, back, back. Until he finally had to relent and fly out of its path. Yellow light soared into the crowd and exploded through the cement structure, a path of ruin left in its wake through the city beyond. Screams of terror and anguish filled the air, a symphony to the Saiyan’s ears.
Finally. Finally he would get what he wanted, what he craved for all these years: revenge. To best Kakarot and once and for all reclaim his rightful place as the most powerful Saiyan in existence. Babadi’s magic did no more than reach into the depths of his mind, his soul, and resurrect Vegeta. Tearing the man once feared the universe over, the savage and ruthless destroyer, from the shallow, unmarked grave he himself had shoved him into. For comfort. For ease. For conformity on this wretched planet. The fingers of the wizard’s black magic plucked the pesky attachments he developed from his mind like overzealous weeds. Vegeta, the Prince of all Saiyans was whole once more, beaten down pride and burning rage reignited and flaring hotter than any star.
They called his decision to succumb to Babidi’s mind control weakness. Slavery. No. The wizard had no more control of him than anyone else should have these past years. He felt more powerful than he ever had. He raised his hand again and shot another blast into the crowd. This. This was what he wanted. He would not let anyone or anything stand in the way of his battle with Kakarot. Not the Kai. Not Gohan. Not this Buu creature or Babidi. They settled this today. He would reclaim his honor, his destiny.
He would stand in Kakarot’s shadow no longer.
Vegeta struggled against the powerful arms that restrained him, tail lashing in fury as he fought with fists, feet, and teeth against Frieza’s goons. He could hear Nappa bringing up the rear, pleading the young Saiyan’s case with Frieza: he was young and hadn’t learned to respect his betters, his mourning made him mouthier, that he would handle punishment himself and ensure it never happened again, anything other than locking him away like that, to lock him up in there instead. They both knew his words fell flat in the tyrant’s ears; Vegeta had finally crossed the line and told the emperor just what he thought of him and Frieza did not tolerate insubordination.
The soldiers tossed the young Saiyan to the back of the dark room. He roared and darted forward, only to collide with the cold metal of the door slamming in his face. He only just registered the pain it caused, already launching himself for the door again, intent on busting it open. He screamed and rammed into the door, bellowed for Nappa to let him out this instant. Deep down he knew his protests were swallowed by the darkness that encompassed him in the small space, but it didn’t stop him from yelling until his throat was raw. From bashing his full weight into the door until his small frame went numb.
Furious, he bounded back. Ki built in his palms and he shot every ounce of energy he had toward the door. The blast rebounded straight back and struck him in the chest. The force knocked the wind from his lungs and smashed him into the wall behind him. His body slid to the ground and he laid still. Limp, too weak to move.
It was too easy to lose track of time in that pitch black cell, and he did not know how long he lay there. Light filtered into the room as the door cracked open. Freedom! He willed himself to fly toward it as a tray with a paltry sum of food was set on the cold floor along with a glass of water. Vegeta nearly grasped the edge of the door but, once more, it slammed in his face and nearly took his fingers with it. He growled, his throat screeching in protest at the guttural sound. He felt along the edges of the door--or what he thought were the edges of the door--for any kind of hand hold. A way to grip it and force it open. Sealed tight, as expected. He kicked the tray into the wall in his stubborn frustration.
He counted six meals. Six failed attempts at escaping. Sometimes, he woke up from his slumber, and when he felt around the cell, he found the food waiting for him. Missed opportunities. The meals barely kept him alive and awarded him no energy. He slept more often than not, plagued by dreams of spending the rest of his life there. The deaths of his parents and people burning up in the wake of an exploding planet. Nappa and Raditz being tortured in his absence...He always woke up in a tighter ball after such nightmares, tail squeezing him in makeshift protection…
Light flared and burned his eyes, causing him to hiss and tuck his face into his chest and arms. Large hands slipped beneath him and scooped him up. His tail bristled in warning and his body stiffened, all senses on high alert. The restraints held fast, the familiar scent of the Saiyan general filling his nose and calming him. Nappa carried him out of the cell, and Vegeta buried his face in his armor, fighting the tears of anguish that threatened to fall.
Before long, he was deposited onto his bed. The young Saiyan prince squirmed beneath the blanket and faced the wall in his bunk, knees tucked to his chest. He heard Raditz shift above him but his light snoring remained uninterrupted. He held his blankets tight around him, clutching them like a lifeline and laid perfectly still. He still felt tired, drained, but his eyes remained wide open and set on the wall. He never knew he could miss a bed or a pillow so much. Or the sound of Raditz snoring. Or light.
After a long while, hours perhaps, he heard Nappa sigh; he had forgotten the general remained in the room at all. “I’m sorry, kiddo...so damn sorry.” He spoke in nearly a whisper, his typically strong and boisterous voice close to shaking. “I wish I could protect you like your parents wanted...like you deserve.”
Vegeta’s grip tightened on the blanket that failed to warm him. He felt cold. Always so cold. “Feeling sorry for yourself won’t do you any good, Nappa,” he mumbled, a half-hearted reprimand in comparison to his usual temper. He turned to face Nappa, staring him down with a blank expression and hollow eyes. “Mother, father...everyone else is dead. We survived, and we’ll keep doing it...no matter what it takes.”
He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “We’re the lucky ones.”
Upbeat dance music filtered up to the balcony on a light summer breeze to the balcony on the other side of Capsule Corp. where Vegeta had taken refuge from the ongoing celebration. No one noticed his exit, and he had no qualms with that. While most left him to his own devices, he tired of the idle conversation, the laughter and music. Thus, he snatched up a cooler of beer and took off to the other side of the building, settling in at a table on one of the balconies.
He tipped the bottle back and drained the rest of its contents. He threw it into the air, toward the setting sun, and blasted it into nothing. Since Majin Buu’s defeat, he felt as if he floated through space and time, a phantom going through the motions of a routine that felt more pointless by the day. Not even training held his interest long and, more often than not, he found himself flying around the planet aimlessly but pretending to have a purpose.
Kakarot had once more proven himself the better warrior and killed Buu. He swallowed his pride and accepted it, accepted the fact that he would forever be second place. In the moment, he thought acceptance would free him and perhaps it had at the time. But as time passed and he returned to life on Earth playing the role of husband for show and father and took up his training regimen...a weight bore down on him, growing heavier each day. He grew restless and craved direction, purpose. How long had he chased that dream of revenge? Of surpassing Kakarot and anyone else who challenged his birthright as the most powerful Saiyan--no, being--in existence? After losing Raditz and Nappa, being humiliated on Earth and Namek...he had clung to the only things he truly understood: rage, pride, and vengeance.
Vegeta reached down to fish out another beer from the icy confines of the cooler. He flicked the cap off with his thumb and pressed it to his lips, draining half the bottle in a single gulp. He considered the idea of taking the spaceship and wandering the universe that always lingered at the back of his mind. Search for warriors to train with, test his limits and break them and the monotony. The desire to conquer and claim what his father promised him had faded to a fever dream. He lacked the patience it required these days. As usual, he squashed the idea before it could spur him into action.
Maybe someday he would find something that sparked the fire in him again, gave him purpose. Or he would spend the rest of his days in inanity, performing a part in a play he neither tried out for or wanted. Waiting for the next tragedy to befall the Earth or universe so he could feel alive for a day or two or until the threat was exterminated, likely by Kakarot. And then the cycle would repeat: he would train to get stronger, a new threat arises, Kakarot proves he’s more powerful. Maddening. Unfulfilling. Reality.
He let his head fall back and watched the whisps of clouds lazily sail through the darkening sky. What had Frieza told him when he found out about the destruction of his planet and people? That he was one of the lucky ones. Lucky...by Earthling standards, many had told him that for one reason or another: you have a hot, rich “wife” and don’t need to work, a place to live and food to eat, a healthy son, the fact that he was alive to live the next day. Nothing that truly mattered to him; an ideal Earth life did not appeal to his Saiyan warrior mentality. In fact, he could not think of a single moment in his life where he would consider himself lucky, even with Frieza dead and unable to be the source of his despair.
Raised voices and laughter from inside shifted his attention to the glass doors. Kakarot had finally showed up. His friends surrounded him like flies on shit, grinning and laughing with the buffoon like he had been there all day. Even his shrew of a wife who had complained about his absence all afternoon to anyone who would listen smiled in welcome. Kakarot...the damn bastard. He drank the last of his beer and stood up.
Vegeta had lost everything else--his title, his race, his birthright--but, as he stared down his longtime rival from behind a pane of glass, he knew he could cling to one, single truth: he was a warrior. Always would be. And he would never stop pushing and breaking his limits his way.
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April 27th (Patrick Stump Imagine)
For mah boi Patrick, happy April 27.
---------------------------
This particular concert popped Patrick's bubble of personal tranquility. Not because it was timed exactly at his date of birth, rather, it's the guests who came.
Concerts usually put Patrick into a calm state. First, people wondered how he managed to do so, but the longer fans watch his shows, the more they realized how he seems to pretend the crowd's an unanimated flower meadow.
It wasn't a shocker. He admitted to having a twinge of stage fright at the beginning which best explains why Pete's the frontman. He rarely let the crowd sing for themselves, entertain their requests and most importantly he never once prolonged a two-second eye contact. Of course, the critics weren't pleased but there was only little the band could do to help since improvement depends on the person himself. So the three allowed the blonde to perform interaction-less for three albums.
April 27th is a date for one of their shows. Everyone on stage was splotched with heavy sweat, most of which glossed their faces and pricked their eyes. Good thing they considered it not a hindrance for the fifth song on the setlist: Sugar, We're Going Down...
Andy initiated the song using his beats, soon followed Pete then Joe. While they busied hyping the crowd Patrick stomped his feet and clapped his hands.
"...Am I more than you bargained for yet?"
His voice resonated inside the venue like it was his for the taking. The crowd cheered and flopped their arms up in the air, allowing themselves to be conquered by the music, but the blue-eyed man dared not to stare at the wondrous effects of his actions. Strange how the voice of the king belonged to a shy guy.
The opposite was said for one of the audience, (Y/n) (L/n). She only discovered them a month ago after her best friend handpicked a record. The cover only depicted four men sitting down but she opted it had an ineffable aura and bought it.
Although she's a recent fan, that didn't stop her from screeching and flailing around nonstop. When she heard the transition for Sugar she immediately shook her friend Brendon's shoulder into a smoothie. Fortunately, before the brunette could mutter a glimpse of a complaint, Patrick sang the first line and began seizing like her.
If it wasn't obvious, (Y/n) couldn't take her eyes off the lead singer, and it's not because singers are placed in the middle. She's scared to admit, but the reason she bought the record is that his seafoam eyes drowned her in.
Sadly, those ocean orbs never stared back to anyone.
As the song reached its last chorus, the crowd got predominantly louder. At first (Y/n) thought it was because Pete licked his bass, but it was for a different reason.
Let's be honest, it wasn't her fault she didn't know. But it sure felt embarrassing as hell, seeing banners and face cutouts for Patrick's birthday.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRICK!!" The front row yelled spontaneously, then the lower box, upper, until it reached gen ad. The masses displayed all their love and affection, so Patrick couldn't help but smile and shrug sheepishly. He appreciates the gesture, unlike Pete however, he doesn't know how to act in this situation.
On the other hand, (Y/n) looked at her friend in disappointment, as if saying they could've made something for him like the others. It's a good thing that instead of moping, they'd rather scream their love from the top of their lungs in unison, and they decided it was the right time to do so when the noise was about to settle down.
"I LOVE YOU!!"
Patrick flinched so hard it nearly cost him a neck fracture. That voice was so familiar it blocked out all others. When he found what might be the source of the yell, time halted.
The stunning hair and soul-penetrating eyes definitely brought more life to such an exquisite sound. She flooded Patrick with both pleasure and sadness at once. He was almost sure it'll leave a bitter aftertaste.
She looks much like (N/n).
(N/n) was Patrick's biggest love whom he admired at school. She had his heart ever since she helped him create a sand castle back in kindergarten and nurtured his feelings as time flew by. Everyone knew this except the girl herself, which made things a bit more complicated. His feelings were so strong to the point it's used for blackmail. It's a shameful example but when he was at the age of nine he still drank milk from a sippy cup. He wouldn't budge and none of his parent's attempts worked until they threatened him that they'll snitch and tell (N/n). He stopped in fear of lowering the way she thought of him after. When he told the story, the band laughed. Even Andy, who's usually empathetic, wheezed and labeled him a lovesick idiot.
Fate, however, made things worse as he had to move places and leave both Chicago and her alone. But his feelings for her never faltered, in fact, it proved the saying absence makes the heart grow fonder. His devotion earned him some snarky remark and failed blind dates. He just couldn't help but compare them to the one everytime. Good thing his bandmates respected his decision to take a break from dating.
Now, nearly a decade later they locked eyes, making (Y/n) the first audience Patrick truly acknowledged and wished to impress.
His breath hitched and hers did too. Holy Smokes he was nervous.
A strange aura connected them the minute she got a clear picture of his face. She was puzzled instantly, she couldn't differentiate whether it's oh nostalgia or she's just starstruck-ed.
It didn't matter at the moment, because they've been snared by each other's eyes.
Oh God Patrick! Breathe in, breathe out!
Joe was the first one who caught up, having to nudge him back to reality and Brendon had to check (Y/n) if she needed water.
"Hey (Y/n), dude you okay?" He asked causing her to cackle "I-I literally made eye contact with Patrick Stump how am I fine??"
He chuckled "Good point"
He looked back on stage and caught a glimpse of Patrick staring at his friend before quickly turning away "Man, this guy gets the best surprise parties. Meanwhile I didn't even got a fanfic written for my birthday"
(a/n: sorry bren)
For the rest of the concert, the lead couldn't take his eyes off of her, at least he tried for three songs before he completely lost control. She's simply irresistible. And, breathtaking. Literally
But she's also accompanied by an equally handsome boy. The fact tempered his spirits, especially when the stranger wrapped his arm around her. Why wasn't it him instead?
Oh, because he had to move out.
By the end of the show, Patrick had been dead set on finding the "(N/n) lookalike" and dashed to the exit before anyone else.
He coasted through the group of fans. Once he was in an acceptable distance to yell her name, he was dogged tired.
Brendon inserted his car keys and (Y/n) placed her head against the Chevrolet's window with both eyes closed.
"(N/n)!!"
She looked up and the two gawked as they saw Patrick Stumph waltz towards them.
She furrowed her eyebrows, tired and dazed. His speaking voice is as angelic as his singing voice.
"How did you know my name?" She asked sedately, unlike on the inside, she's screaming questions like the aforementioned and some about how unpredictably calm she is 4ft away from him.
He smiled sadly.
"I... just heard it from when you were talking earlier— not that I eavesdropped I just happen to walk by!... Umm, God, I sound like a creep"
She giggled and his heart surged up his throat. She didn't expect a conversation with one of the band members would be so calm, especially seeing how wild they perform, and he didn't expect her not to "remember" him either. So in his logic, it's kind of a tie.
"Happy birthday by the way" She greeted. Patrick grinned and tipped his hat "Thanks"
"Is there anything we can help you with?" Her friend asked.
"Yeah" The blonde nodded his head "D-Do you guys wanna come with us in (restaurant name)? We're celebrating my birthday there since it's been a while since I been in Chicago and thought the more the merrier..."
'Really Patrick? That's your excuse?' He shrugged off his internal monologue
Although (Y/n) is sick of eating pizza daily in that place she couldn't help but accept the second he invited her.
He glanced up "Your boyfriend can come too if you'd like"
The boy laughs "Sure, but I'm not her boyfriend. My name's Brendon,"
He shook his hand and gave a genuine smile. Patrick wanted to do a victory dance on the spot so bad
"Great!" Patrick clapped. "Not great as in you're-not-in-a-relationship great. The I'm-glad-you-guys are coming great, I mean" he flushed
Brendon raised an eyebrow but laughed anyway.
"We'll pick you guys at 7" Patrick muttered and left. The time was 6:44 so they have to wait for about 6 minutes.
The two friends leaned on the van, left alone. It was silent for a while before her friend began to talk.
"When was the last time people called you (N/n)? I haven't heard anyone called you that at all..."
"They use to back in high school, but only people who are super close to me get to say that without getting kicked where the sun don't shine"
"So that means...?"
She sighed and finger combed her hair.
"He was the one that got away"
#Patrick stump#patrick stump imagines#patrick stump imagine#patrick stump#patrick stump x reader#Brendon Urie#brendon urie imagine#brendon urie#brendon urie x reader#Fall out boy#fall out boy imagines#fall out boy imagine#fall out boy#panic! at the disco imagine#panic! at the disco#pete wentz#andy hurley#joe trohman#emo trinity#emo quartet#i'm sorry man#imagine#x reader
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Precure Day 120
Episode: Futari wa Precure Splash Star 22 - “Super Surprising! Michiru and Kaoru’s Shocking Confession!!” Date watched: 11 May 2019 Original air date: 9 July 2006 Screenshots: https://imgur.com/a/5PEq8nL Project info and master list of posts: http://tinyurl.com/PCDabout
vimeo
Before we begin, would anyone like to go on a feels trip?
If you hear the sound of gross sobbing in the background while reading this review, don’t worry it’s just me. Michiru and Kaoru are talking with Gohyaan and Akudaikaan about their failure the previous episode. Akudaikaan loses his temper, lashing out at all in the room and reminding M and K with no uncertainty exactly what their purpose is. He warns them not to hinder his ambitions ever again and they hastily leave. While they stand on Gourd Rock to ruminate some, Gohyaan appears and taunts them some more about their closeness with Precure. He reminds them that if they defeat the heroines, all their problems will be solved.
The next day at school, Mai is quiet and ponderous because she believes the Kiryuus might be from Dark Fall, but she tries to dismiss this notion. The sisters show up and repeatedly flare up their powers, causing Flappi to scream at the burst in dark energy at inconvenient moments (like the middle of a test).
evil eyes: on
Saki and Mai try to talk to the fairies in the hallway, but the sisters appear and Mai hurries off. Saki tells Kaoru that Minori wants to hang out with her again, and asks Michiru to tutor her in math. Their faces soften and they both agree to these things. Then she invites them out to the Sky Tree after school. The sisters go outside and Kaoru reminds her sister that if they wait to defeat Precure, their frustrations might return, but Minori shows up before they can do anything. She is super excited to see Kaoru and explains that she and her mother are there on a delivery to the school, so they may as well go watch Saki’s practice.
a wild Minori appears
They head behind the school near the practice fields, and Mai walks out of the building, notices the three of them, and tucks away to see what’s going on. A stray softball is coming right at Minori’s head, and Kaoru quickly makes it disappear. Mai notices this but before she can say anything, Minori notices her and Saki comes up, asking about the ball. Michiru and Kaoru deny any knowledge, so Saki shrugs it off and invites all of her friends to the Sky Tree while Minori heads off to find her mother again.
When they get there, she instructs all of them to squish themselves against the tree, and feel the calming and positive energy it exudes.
literal tree huggers
Michiru and Kaoru reminisce about the good times they’ve had in the land of greenery, as well as remembering the threat of Akudaikaan. (see the full video at the top) After questioning why she brought them here, Saki says that it’s where she met all of them, so it seems like a special place, and then continues “Do I really need a reason to invite my friends to the Sky Tree?” This surprises the sisters as they’ve never thought of themselves as friends before. They seem genuinely happy for a moment before they remember they’ve got a mission. They clench their fists and this causes Flappi and Choppi to go crazy, so Mai and Saki quickly excuse themselves to talk. Mai tries to explain to Saki that she thinks the siblings are from Dark Fall but the fairies keep interrupting, and Kaoru insists to Michiru that they have to do this. It’s clearly hard for both of them, but they insist to each other that they are proud warriors of Dark Fall, and they prepare their attack.
the absolute anguish
Saki and Mai feel the intense dark energy approaching them and transform before they can even learn who their opponent is.... and so the reveal is that much more dramatic. But the twins do show themselves this time, and there’s no turning back. Bloom is shocked, Egret is more dejected that her hunch was right.
and look at this gorgeous shot. (textless version in the gallery)
Bloom insists that they don’t have to fight, but the Kiryuus insist that they’re from different worlds, and their only purpose for existing is to destroy the Precures and enact Akudaikaan’s will, so they attack. Bloom and Egret block, but refuse to fight back, which angers Michiru and Kaoru. They exchange ideals with the cures, who maintain that they can still be friends, but the twins retaliate that, as all life comes to an end eventually, their vision of a world of ruin, with no life at all, is actually ideal. Egret retaliates by asking Kaoru why she saved Minori earlier that day, and both cures remind them of the nice things they’ve done and promised they’d continue to do, to prove that they’re not truly evil. Saki insists that they’re all friends before they’re warriors, either of peace or of Dark Fall, and she refuses to fight her friends. The speech seems to be working, you can see that Michiru and Kaoru are being swayed, but they are still too afraid of the consequences of failure and double down on their words, before leaping into the air and diving towards the Precures, as the scene freezes and the credits begin to play.
Here we are, at the emotional peak of the journey of Michiru and Kaoru. All the cards are out on the table and they have made the choice (under duress) to put aside their personal feelings and emotional attachments and fight Saki and Mai. I honestly think this hurts them more than the Precures, because deep down, they don’t want to do this, and as much as they try to bury their feelings, they can’t help but to bleed through. There’s a clear hesitation that wasn’t there when they debuted, and they barely hide their emotional attachments to Saki and Mai. They no longer call each other out for helping, making connections, and otherwise getting involved in the lives of the heroines. They hype themselves into fighting, and maintain that they have a responsibility to Akudaikaan even when it’s clear that this goal differs from their desires. They take pause at Saki and Mai’s rejections of their fate and insistence that they’re still friends. They don’t want to do this, but they feel like they have no choice.
Normally, Michiru wears the mask and puts on the act of being friendly to the humans but secretly dismissing them, while Kaoru is more straightforward about her feelings, good or bad. It’s because of this difference in personality that Kaoru is the first one to insist that they drop all pretenses at the Sky Tree and defeat Saki and Mai, while Michiru is initially reluctant (and borderline crying).
seeing them display this kind of emotion would have been unfathomable a few weeks ago
She knows their mission deep down, but she’s allowed her friendly persona to become part of her, and she doesn’t want to fight them. At the same time, Kaoru reminds her that there’s no choice. Regardless of their feelings, they will always be warriors of Dark Fall and that’s the duty they have to fulfill. I don’t want this to read as though Kaoru simply doesn’t care, though. Arguably, she cares even more, but because she doesn’t hide her true self as much as her sister, she is better equipped to see the options in front of them: they cannot keep dodging this matter, they have to confront Saki and Mai and admit that they’re from Dark Fall. If they don’t, Akudaikaan will destroy them himself. Neither of them thinks that their friends will be accepting of their identities, because they come from the side that has been trying to destroy them and everything they care about so how could they possibly remain friends? It’s kill or be killed, so Michiru and Kaoru choose to take a stand for their lives rather than their true principles. However, Bloom and Egret’s refusal to engage and fight back does start to sway them. Mai calls out their hypocrisy particularly well:
The villains are given pause by this, for a moment they falter and lower their guard. Mai has seen through their facade, and wants them to realize the truth they’re denying about themselves. It almost works, but when Saki calls them their “friends,” that triggers a response. That level of intimacy is still too uncomfortable to them, they won’t allow themselves to become close to anybody but each other, and this challenge to their core beliefs makes them retaliate. They reiterate that they were created, given life, for only one purpose: to serve Dark Fall. If they aren’t enacting Akudaikaan’s will, they are betraying that purpose, and don’t deserve to even exist at all. So they fight back, out of fear and loyalty. The villains who fight against their own hearts, and the heroines who refuse to fight because of theirs. What will be the outcome of this clash of ideals? Find out in the next review.
There is one bit of symbolism involving Michiru and Kaoru that I only just realized this episode, and I am furious at myself for not catching it sooner, with how much I’ve talked about other symbolism involving them:
If you’re standing in the teacher’s position, Kaoru sits in the back left corner, Michiru in the seat ahead of her, Mai sits in the back right corner, and Saki sits in front of Mai. Their positions mirror each other, in much the same way as Michiru and Kaoru are mirrors of Saki and Mai. If I were to read further into it, Saki and Mai sit by the window (the light) while the Kiryuus are furthest from the sun’s light, representing their dark nature. I do not know if there’s some Japanese mythology, folklore, or superstition about what side of the room you sit on, beyond the obvious anime trope that the second-from-the-back on the left is the Main Character Seat so they can stare out the window.
Before I wrap up, have some truly sincere Michiru and Kaoru expressions:
The next review will either be tomorrow, or in a week. I want to do some comparing and contrasting with Kiriya’s arc in FWPC, but I don’t think I’ll have a lot of free time tomorrow to write, and as I mentioned, I’ll be on a road trip for a few days. Hopefully I’ll be able to jot something down, I want to wrap up the Kiryuu arc before the trip so I can start into the back half of the show when I return. We’ll see where the wind blows. Whenever the review comes, look forward to it!
Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 0 Zekkouchou Nari!
Miracle Drop Count: 1
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Burakovsky’s Return Gives Washington a Third Line to Contend With
With the Oilers seemingly on the rise, we take at the depth scoring they will need for the team to get back into playoff conversations. We also show some love to a few lesser known names in New York and Washington who have been producing recently (past three games). Next week we’ll review lines that have had a great 2017, and those that should see some improvement in 2018. As always, if you’re looking for the latest line combinations or injury updates, follow me on Twitter @BrennanDeSouza!
Andre Burakovsky – Brett Connolly – Lars Eller
Team ES Point Production: 12 | Line ES Point Production: 6 (50% of team) | CF%: 52.33
When thinking of offensive production on the Washington Capitals, Alex Ovechkin, Nicklas Backstrom, Evgeny Kuznetsov, and TJ Oshie are the first names that come to mind. However, their third line has been stepping up in the team’s last three games and could provide stretches of offensive output throughout the season.
Andre Burakovsky is certainly the most intriguing member of this line and was expected to take a big step forward this season as part of Washington’s talented top six. Unfortunately, a broken thumb caused him to miss 20 games of the season and coach Barry Trotz has opted to ease him back into the lineup with third line minutes. Despite averaging 14:25 of ice time on the season, Burakovsky has seen more than 14 minutes on the ice only once in eight games since returning. At 22 years of age, the 87 points he totalled in 57 games with the Eerie Otters (2013-2014) have fans hoping he’ll continue to develop and become an integral part of the Caps’ future. As good as this line has been in recent games. Burakovsky’s value sees a huge increase if he’s skating alongside Nicklas Backstrom or Evgeny Kuznetsov.
Lars Eller has been remarkably consistent. Unfortunately, consistently finishing with less than 30 points isn’t the type of consistency that gets rewarded in fantasy hockey leagues. In his first season with the Capitals (2016-2017), Eller was seeing 13:44 of ice-time with barely any of it on the power play (0:10). Fast forward to this season and both those numbers are up. Eller is now seeing 15:10 of ice-time and a whole minute on the power play! While this isn’t ideal usage,
It has put Eller on track for a career season. As I mentioned in the opening lines, Eller could provide stretches of offensive production throughout the season. So, a quick spot start to steal the face-off wins category might also come with a couple of points.
When is a high shooting percentage a cause for concern? When it’s higher than a player’s age. Brett Connolly is 25. His shooting percentage is 31.8%. While he’s ‘on pace’ for 18 goals this season, he only has 22 shots in 28 games so far. Such a low shot volume rarely leads to such a high number of goals. Another stat that screams regression is his IPP. In previous seasons, Connolly was getting a point on around half of the goals scored while he was on the ice. This season, he has gotten a point on 90.9% of goals scored while he’s on the ice. With all the numbers pointing at regression, averaging only 11:22 of ice-time this season certainly doesn’t help going forward.
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Drake Caggiula – Ryan Nugent-Hopkins – Patrick Maroon
Team ES Point Production: 24 | Line ES Point Production 8 (33% of team) | CF%: 59.74
While this line has only seen 37:46 of ice-time together this season, the small sample size has yielded extremely promising results. In their time together, Caggiula, Nugent-Hopkins, and Maroon have generated 28 scoring chances compared to the 12 they’ve allowed. Of those 28 scoring chances, 17 of them have been in high danger situations, so they’re putting themselves in good positions to score.
In 2011, Ryan Nugent-Hopkins was drafted first overall. Since then, he’s never broken the 60-point barrier. While injuries and a lacklustre supporting cast can justify his underwhelming production, he’s only 24 and still has room to grow. With the arrivals of Connor McDavid and Leon Draisaitl, Nugent-Hopkins has seen less usage, but fortunately a decrease in ice-time has come with more favorable matchups. While the opposition deploys their best checking line and defensive pairing to shut down McDavid and Draisaitl, Nugent Hopkins has more room to create offense. His ability to provide depth scoring going forward will have a great impact on any chance Edmonton has of making the playoffs.
In his final season with the University of North Dakota, Drake Caggiula totalled 51 points in 39 games, making him an intriguing addition to the Edmonton Oilers. While he is yet to produce at the NHL level, he has made progress since last year, his first season in the big leagues. Caggiula has shown flashes of his offensive abilities, but at the young age of 23, he still needs time to develop and reach his full potential. Expect him to improve on the 0.30 points per game pace he set last season, but temper your expectations because he’s only seeing 13:50 of ice-time.
For a while it seemed like Patrick Maroon held the most permanent spot alongside Connor McDavid, but as a team struggles their line combinations tend to get tossed in a blender. While Maroon is only on pace for 21 goals this season (compared to the 27 he totalled last season), he is doing a good job of putting the puck on net, and is currently on track for a career-high in shots (207). Keep an eye on his production in the next few games to establish a larger sample size and judge his value away from McDavid, as a member of this line.
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Paul Carey – David Desharnais – Jimmy Vesey
Team ES Point Production: 24 | Line ES Point Production 8 (33% of team) | CF%: 43.08
When comparing this line to the other three on this list, you’ll notice their CF% is pretty low. A line with a good CF% is directing more shots at the net than their opposition, logic would tell you that more shots leads to more goals. As a line, Carey, Desharnais, and Vesey have an on-ice shooting percentage 17.65%, while this number would usually hint at regression, their low shot volumes turn that all but guarantee a decrease in production going forward.
I got to see a lot of David Desharnais on the Montreal Canadiens, and I have to say he passed the puck an awful lot, almost to a fault (definitely to a fault). While playing on the Habs, a lot of his points came from setting up Max Pacioretty, who is a substantial upgrade from Jimmy Vesey and Paul Carey. While Desharnais is currently on a hot stretch with five points in his last six games, he had seen an increased role as a concussion kept New York’s top center Mika Zibanejad out of the lineup. Considering how deep the center position is in fantasy hockey leagues, a 40-point player like Desharnais is nothing to drool over.
After totalling 144 points in 128 games for Harvard University, I remember a lot of hype surrounding which NHL team Jimmy Vesey would sign with. Considering he’s still only 24 and currently seeing limited ice-time (13:43), it wouldn’t be fair to call him a bust just yet. While he might still have a bright future ahead, his short-term value is virtually non-existent, unless you need a 30-point player on your roster.
To do a quick review, David Desharnais is a player I might add for a game or two (against my better judgement), Jimmy Vesey is a player who might be valuable in the future, and Paul Carey is a player who you shouldn’t own. The only situation in which you can justify owning Carey is if you wanted to make your team name “Carey Me Home” and a Carey Price owner wasn’t open to trade talks. I would bring up some statistics to further dissuade you from owning Carey, but his 0% ownership in Yahoo! Leagues reminds me that isn’t an issue.
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from All About Sports http://www.dobberhockey.com/hockey-home/nhl-line-combinations/burakovskys-return-gives-washington-a-third-line-to-contend-with/
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The Other Guys
In all of my previous posts, I may have been a little guilty of harping on the Big 4. But, in this piece, I will present you three of the most interesting characters on the pro-tour, outside of the quantum quartet.
Kei Nishikori
Naaaah. Just kidding!
Don’t get me wrong, I like Kei. Both as a human being and as a tennis player. But, man, he is boring.
If I had to compare tennis players to popular drinks, I’d say Federer was a glass of Pinot Noir, because of his grace, and Nadal would be a pitcher of lava, because of his intensity. Without any doubt in my mind, the drink that comes to mind when I think of Kei: soy milk.
Blandness personified. And, I should reiterate: he is a really good player, famous for upsetting the big kings in their guarded empires. He defeated Djokovic, who was the top seed, at the US Open in the 2014 semi-finals. He beat Andy Murray there in 2016 (also in the semi-finals). He came painfully close in beating Nadal in Madrid. The guy can play.
But, he’s just not blockbuster. Not to worry though! Kei, if you’re reading this, I have outlined six steps for you become interesting.
When you’re in Miami, give Nelly a ring and get a pair of iced out grillz. (Top and bottom).
Next time you hit an inside-out double handed backhand, scream out, “Kamehameha!”.
Dye your hair white and get pixelated highlights for the stark contrast. (Just try it out for me).
Fire Michael Chang (his current coach). Go solo for a while. Lone wolves are cool.
Make a few guest appearances on anime shows. (Seriously, man. You’re an icon in Japan. You’re almost as big as David Hasselhoff in Germany! How has that not already happened?).
Take your jaguar out for a spin in and burn some rubber on the streets of Tokyo, with some of the legendary drift kings. (Make sure you moon every single speed camera and get those photographs for your Twitter account).
There’s still time for the US Open. Almost six weeks. Once you have completed these steps, the crowds in Flushing Meadows are going to be calling you, ‘Bae Nishikori’. Until then, you have some work to do.
1. Gael Monfils
He made that jump on asphalt. That’s hard. A lot. I wouldn’t even attempt that unless it was on a giant bed.
But, that in an essence is Gael. He is widely considered to have been one of the most athletic players to have come into tennis. His fitness coach says that he nearly went became a track and field runner. Therefore he remains one of the biggest unfulfilled prospects this sport has seen. He almost 28, and he has never one a grand slam. Forget trophies, he’s never even made it to a semi-final.
Let me present him differently. Monfils would have been the cool kid in school. Naturally gifted who potentially could ace everything. Instead, he prefers the relaxed vibe of the school’s art department rather than the humdrum of studying.Perhaps knowing that he could never live up to the hype; he has made peace with this choice. He isn’t a bully. In fact, he’s a distinguished member of the student body. He does not get into any trouble. Reputation intact without any scandal. He simply prefers the path of creativity over the rush hour highway frequented by the Big 4. It’s all a matter of perspective.
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Here’s La Monf, entertaining his home crowd in Paris during one of their many rain delays. This was back in 2014.
2. Fabio Fognini
I genuinely wonder if Fabio models himself after Sonny Corleone. This bombast from Sicily always brings in the show whenever he’s on court.
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This compilation might be the best snippets you could find of him. (The second last one is probably the best. I love the whirlpool of melodrama that he flies into when a line-call goes against him.
Married to the 2015 US Open women’s champion, Flavia Panetta, he hoisted the trophy up proudly as if it were his own, back in 2015. He views himself as the kalamata olive in a mayo salad. He views it his critical duty to bring in the flavor.
Tennis is a popular sport in Italy. With an ATP Masters 1000 (in Rome), there are many fans waiting for the next homegrown grand slam winner. The last time was back in 1976, when Adriano Panatta won Roland Garros. I wonder if that pressure is one of the reasons as to why Fabio gets into so much trouble with umpires, linesmen, players, etc. (He once threatened Layani (an umpire). He almost came to blows against Rafa. And, he set fire to the Easter Bunny. Perhaps, I embellished one of them).
He’s that kid in high school who’s parents and grand parents were all distinguished scholars, and finds himself living under their daily shadow. I actually knew someone like that and he’d regular vent out that frustration by pulling the most extreme pranks on students and even teachers. And, just like him, Fabio’s a troublemaker.
As the song goes (by Olly Murs):
You're a troublemaker, you're a troublemaker
Trouble troublemaker, yeah, that's your middle name, oh oh oh..
I know you're no good but you're stuck in my brain
Don’t try to understand him. Revel in his madness.
3. John McEnroe
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McEnroe. Winner of seven grand slams and one of the most prominent tennis commentators. However, as of late, he is gaining notoriety for making provocative statements.
Allow me to provide you with some of his finest hits:
He alluded that Djokovic might have had extramarital affairs, like Tiger Woods, which culminated in his performance drop. (Ridiculous. Based on nothing and with today’s paparazzi, we’d have known by now).
He said Serena Williams would be ranked #700 if she played on the men’s tour. (Asinine. She’d absolutely be in the top 5).
In his opinion, Andy Murray – current world number one, is a distant fourth among his peers in the Big 4. (True but unnecessary).
Keep in mind, these are just from the last two months.
He was notorious for his catchphrase: “You cannot be serious!”
This would be unleashed upon the referees who gave him bad calls.
It’s hard to think of another tennis player who had such a temper.
I am reminded by a quote by the great writer, Mark Twain.
“Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured”.
In all fairness, Twain never played tennis.
1984 was his chance. The clay dominator of that time, Bjorn Borg wasn’t playing that year. McEnroe came in as the top seed. He was the favorite. He made history but not the way he wanted. He blew a two sets to love lead against Ivan Lendl in the French Open finals, back in 1984. This was the only time in the Open Era that anyone had lost with such a lead, in the finals of a Slam. It was the closest he ever came in winning that title. With just five points away from the finish line, he got mad at a bad call made by the linesman on his serve. He lost his composure and his momentum.
To his credit he has a good sense of humor about it. On his show on Eurosport, he interviewed a younger version of himself.
Old McEnroe: Let me give you one final piece of advice when you're playing this Czech guy in the 1984 French Open final. When you're 5 points away from winning the tournament - don't assume it's over!
Young McEnroe: You’re a joke. Do you think I'm stupid enough to the lose match from that position? You cannot be serious.
Old McEnroe turns to the camera, completely deadpan, and says, “I wish I wasn’t”.
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